Author's Note: A big thanks to the wonderful dormiensa for her beta work, as well as guiding my search for a title. This was written for the DramioneLove Mini Fest 2016, and my prompt was #126: Welcome to the Hotel California.
I visited Todos Santos, alleged home of the Hotel California, on my honeymoon. It's a growing town known for its art and music scene, and its charm and character haven't been worn away by absurd amounts of tourist traffic. As I walked around the buildings, the famous Eagles song running through my head, I felt transported to another time. I hope you keep the song in mind as you read this – I think it gives the story a little something extra.
A Melancholy Refrain
Late January: firmly winter for those who lived in Todos Santos, but reminiscent of summer to everyone else, brimming with sunshine and heat that was neither blistering nor forgiving. Draco stood in the shade of the mission, dressed in trousers and long sleeves, as one accustomed to the climate would be. Sweat dripped down his pale neck. His linen shirt stuck to him, limp and wrinkled from a long day's travel. Dust from the road settled into every damp crevice.
He straightened when he saw her, turning a corner and walking up the street across from him. She, too, dressed in the habit of the natives: colorful sneakers, snug jeans, white blouse. His breath caught as he watched her move. She dodged the mid-afternoon tourist influx like she had been doing it all her life, with swaying hips and dipping shoulders, so graceful she was nearly dancing.
Draco turned as she approached, hiding his face and hunching his shoulders.
"I would know you anywhere," she had told him once. He could still feel the soft skin of her hand as she caressed his cheek and the burn of her brown eyes as she memorized every part of him.
She was rarely wrong, but Draco was sure she would not notice him today. She was not expecting to see him, so she would not be looking. His wide-brimmed hat and large sunglasses were atypical, and she had never seen him with more than a dusting of facial hair, to say nothing of the dark blond scruff now camouflaging his distinctive cheeks and chin.
As intended, she did not see him.
He was the one who had told her – told them all – to run. That the war had been lost before the battle could be fought in earnest. That predictable Potter had walked into Voldemort's trap and was now less than human, silent and still in the Lestrange estate's darkest cell, a protected vessel of Voldemort's, and only Voldemort's, soul.
Many had not listened. She had. Their trust was a bond forged over time and tempered through experience, him as a spy and her as his unlikely handler. They had taught each other much, and he was proud of what she had learned.
After all, she had been a difficult woman to find.
His route to her had been circuitous – but then, it always had. He had circled her in youth, gravitating toward her though Fate's clawed hands regularly ripped them apart. When he stopped fighting the inevitable and gave himself over to his path, he entertained no hope of reconnection. She remained an unanswered question until circumstance brought them wand-to-wand, and when Fate had offered him the apple, he did not care if it was poisoned. He bit.
That was years ago, and still, he was indifferent to what this excursion could cost him. Her exposure was not a concern; he had covered his tracks well and arranged his alibi with precision. He would deflect any fallout that came from his extended absence. His mental health likewise took a backseat. Seeing her one last time was worth any amount of pain.
Draco followed her, keeping his distance as she crossed the street and turned the corner. He fell in with a group of tourists, using their curious gazes as a cover for his own search.
"Welcome to the Hotel California."
Her cheerful voice drifted out at him from the air conditioned insides of a building done in red plaster. The words "Hotel California" glinted on its side in large, gold letters.
Draco took a stumbling seat on a nearby bench. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back. For what felt like hours, he listened to her explain the hotel's history and take reservations from guests. Her Spanish was beautiful, lilting and musical. Pain lanced through his chest at her English, which was almost entirely unaccented. She laughed with her coworker, flirted with a waiter from the nearby restaurant, and made evening plans with a pretty woman who carried a young boy in her arms.
She was safe. Of course she was; that was not the question this trip was meant to answer. Because who would think to look for her here? Across the world, concealed in a small, Spanish town, where her curly hair and sun-bronzed skin helped her pass as a native to anyone who did not know better or did not look too closely? Where her accent was hidden by language and her magic by necessity?
She had a life in Mexico, and, more importantly, she was happy. This was what he needed to know. Part of him hurt to see her so comfortable in a life without him, but that had been his hope for her when he had told her to leave and lied about following. It still was. She deserved more than just a chance at survival; she deserved a chance at life, even if it was one neither of them would have willingly chosen.
Draco removed his sunglasses as the sky began to darken and rose as the mission bell tolled the day's end. Though he intended to just walk away, he turned, a slave to the compulsion to see her one last time. He passed the door, looked at the desk where she had been sitting all afternoon, and nearly stumbled as she met his eyes.
His heart pounded. He kept moving, giving her what he hoped was a casual nod even as her brow furrowed in a vague precursor of recognition.
He could not tempt Fate. Their love was forever destined to be a nostalgic memory plucked out on strings, beautiful and brief, not a thing to be rekindled over war and water. As soon as he turned the corner, Draco began to sprint toward the mission. He heard her shout over his heavy footfalls and knew he was out of time. With a whirl and a crack, he vanished, leaving each of them a prisoner of his device.
The End